Charlotte Louise Dolan (4 page)

More than likely this temporary position was in the nature of a stop-gap. Lady Letitia was undoubtedly planning something for the little Season in the fall and was now merely guaranteeing that Lady Anne would be unemployed and available then, while at the same time solving what had become a thorny problem for the agency.

* * * *

“It is really a shame dear Mr. Trussell was not left in charge of the twins. He is their uncle, you know—their mother’s brother, and such a sweet man. So courteous in every respect, but with no real authority to take charge of their lives. He confided in me what a terrible blow it was when he discovered the twins’ guardianship had been left to Lord Leatham. Perhaps you have heard of him? He is not even their uncle, although the boys are accustomed to referring to him as such. He is merely their father’s second cousin and quite a barbarous man. Only imagine, months go by without a word from him and then he simply descends upon the household with no warning, encourages the boys in their wildness, and then departs, leaving poor Mr. Trussell to try to undo the harm. Such a dear man, and he does his best, but it is an impossible situation. More tea?”

“No, thank you. I really must be going. I do appreciate your helpfulness.” Anne rose to her feet and pulled on her gloves.

Miss Jennings escorted her to the door. “Really, I do not think Lord Wylington and Lord Anthony are beyond salvaging. They have such angelic smiles, I am sure they must also have good hearts. If only they could be completely removed from the influence of the baron, then perhaps they might be more willing to follow the model of their dear uncle, who is in every way the perfect gentleman.”

The woman was a complete ninny, Anne decided while walking at a brisk pace back to her lodgings. A useful source of information, to be sure, but Miss Jennings’s ability to evaluate other people’s character was woefully deficient.

Which was adequate reason for Anne to resolve then and there to be especially wary when confronted by two “angelic smiles.”

* * * *

“The expenditures are a bit high, but well within normal bounds. I cannot see any discrepancies in the accounts that would tend to support your suspicions that Mr. Trussell is playing ducks and drakes with your wards’ money. If you perhaps had some evidence?”

Bronson Roebuck, Lord Leatham, regarded his solicitor, Mr. Johnston, through half-closed eyes. Evidence? Did the man take Creighton Trussell for such a fool that he would leave signed documents lying around stating that he was embezzling money from the Wylington estate? Indeed, it was a lucky thing George Morrough, one of his late father’s old cronies, had felt it his responsibility to drop a word in Bronson’s ear about Trussell’s activities.

“My wards’ uncle has been spending money on his wardrobe and his mistress at a rate that patently exceeds his funds.”

“But my dear Lord Leatham, surely you know there are any number of ways a gentleman can augment his income. Mr. Trussell may have won large sums at cards, for example, or speculated successfully on ‘Change, or even borrowed from a cent-per-cent, which while certainly unwise, is not at all illegal. And I must point out, the estate books are fully in order.”

“To be sure, such things are possible.” Except of course, for the fact that the Bow Street runner Morrough had recommended had easily discovered that Creighton, rather than winning the required sums, had been steadily losing money on the horses and at cards—a great deal of money, in fact.

Would the solicitor evince more interest if he learned that the runner had not been able to locate any money-lender who had had dealings with Trussell? Would the solicitor merely find more excuses if he were told the extreme lengths Trussell had gone to hide the fact that he was the owner of the lease on that little house in Mayfair presently occupied by the latest redhead beauty to grace the ranks of opera dancers at Covent Gardens?

More than likely, Mr. Johnston would interpret Trussell’s furtive actions as being merely the discretion of a prudent man. Solicitors, it would seem, were not trained to operate on suspicions. They required positive evidence.

It was little consolation for Bronson to consider that he himself would have been dead on more than a dozen occasions in foreign lands if he had not taken action quickly and efficiently, when the said action was supported by nothing more than the flimsiest of suspicions.

But if evidence was required in Merrie Olde England, then evidence would be found. Bronson rose to his feet.

The solicitor hurried around his desk to open the door for him. “And you will, of course, leave a copy of your itinerary with my clerk? So we will know where to forward such papers as require your signature?”

“My departure plans are as yet uncertain. It may be necessary to postpone my trip for a few weeks. As soon as I have finished my business in London, I will personally inspect the situation at Wylington Manor.”

Lord Leatham’s smile was quite feral, and Mr. Johnston could not quite suppress a shudder at the sight of what was little more than bared fangs. If Creighton Trussell was indeed embezzling funds from the estate, then the good Lord have mercy upon him, because the poor fool could expect to receive none from the baron.

* * * *

Anne Hemsworth descended from the coach at the Red Stag in Tavistock and efficiently directed the guard as to the removal of her luggage. The yard of the staging inn was bustling with hostlers unhitching the spent horses and bringing out the new team, with passengers embarking and debarking, and with sundry other people going about their business, all in the greatest of haste.

After the stage departed to continue its journey to Liskeard, a degree of calm gradually descended upon the yard, but no one appeared to inquire if she were being met or if she would require a room for the night. When five minutes of patient waiting stretched into ten, Anne decided to take matters into her own hands.

Waylaying the landlord as he hurried by, she inquired if anyone had arrived from Wylington Manor.

He eyed her impassively from the top of her bonnet to the tips of her half-boots, but she was quite used to receiving such thorough inspection, and it had been years since she had been discomposed by people’s reaction to her unusual height.

“Another new governess, eh? Aye, Harry came with the gig nigh on an hour ago. Happen you’ll find him in the taproom.”

“And how may I recognize Harry?”

The landlord gave her a speculative look, and for a moment she was not sure he intended to answer.

“Just look for the man with the least hair on his head and the most on his chin, and that’ll be the one you want.” With a snort that might have been intended as a laugh, he turned away to deal with another guest.

Standing in the door of the taproom it was not hard, based on the landlord’s description, to pick out the most likely candidate. The majority of the customers drinking their ale were clean-shaven, but one appeared not to have touched a razor in at least a sennight. Whether or not he was bald was not immediately apparent, since he wore a shabby cloth hat pulled down low over his forehead, but Anne was reasonably assured that she had the right man.

Approaching him where he sat at the bar, she heard the buzz of conversation around her gradually die down. The room was completely silent, all attention obviously on her, when she asked, “Are you Harry? The groom from Wylington Manor?”

He turned to look at her. “And what if I am?” he replied insolently, then spat in the sawdust at her feet.

“I am the new governess. I believe you have been sent to meet me.”

“All in good time. I ain’t done talking to my friends.” He turned his back on her, and a low murmur of amusement rippled through the room.

Well, thought Anne, as Aunt Sidonia always said, start as you mean to go on. With lightning speed, she grasped the groom’s ear firmly and hoisted him off the bench.

“Ow, ow, let go my ear! Whatcher think yer doing? Ow, ow, let go!”

“I find I much prefer to leave at once.” Amid equal numbers of catcalls and cheers from the other patrons, she dragged the recalcitrant groom stumbling and protesting across the room and out the door. By the time they reached the yard, he was half running to keep up with her stride, in a futile effort to ease the pressure on his ear.

She did not release him until they had crossed the sill into the stables. “Now, harness up the horse and let us be on our way.”

Rubbing his sore ear, he backed away from her. “And if I don’t? Whatcher plannin’ to do then? Harness up by yourself?”

There was naked hostility in his expression, but then she had never found popularity worth the price one had to pay.

She took one step toward him, but he darted away before she could grab his ear again. In matters of strength, she knew she had the advantage, but she declined to make herself look foolish by chasing him around the stables.

Luckily, he was not indispensable, although he appeared to think he was. There was only one gig presently in the stable, so that presented no problem, but trying to guess which horse was the correct one was a more difficult matter.

Turning to the man whose livery proclaimed him the head hostler at the inn, she asked in an authoritative voice, “Which horse belongs to the Marquess of Wylington?”

The man nodded in the direction of a sleek roan placidly chewing a mouthful of hay, but otherwise he made no move to help her. Nor did any of the other men who were standing around appreciating the humor of her predicament, although one of them snickered, causing Harry to guffaw openly.

“They ain’t none of the others going to help you none neither, so don’t think they will. They’re my friends.” Harry taunted her from a safe position behind a phaeton.

Well, he who laughs last, she thought. Untying the horse, she quickly and efficiently harnessed it to the gig and led it out into the yard, where she recovered her luggage and effortlessly tossed it up into the vehicle. Then climbing onto the driver’s seat, she proceeded on her journey without further delay. She made the turn out of the courtyard before it belatedly occurred to Harry that he was being left with no transportation.

She could hear him calling for her to wait, but she did not bother to look back, nor did she check her pace, which was perhaps a bit reckless for the crowded streets of the market town. She was a good whip, however, and was determined to convince not only the groom but the townspeople as well, that she was not a person to trifle with.

Thanks to her informative chat with Miss Jennings, Anne was able to pick the correct road out of town, and by the time the last house had been left behind, so too had the sounds of Harry’s pursuit.

* * * *

For the primary residence of a marquess, it was not excessively large. Anne pulled the horse to a halt, the better to survey Wylington Manor. Of uncertain architectural design, it sprawled in the sun, giving the impression of immense age. A regular indentation around the central portion of the building was evidence of an earlier moat, and behind the house the moor stretched away, bleak, desolate, and timeless.

Even while she watched, a cloud passed overhead, blotting out the sun, and the manor became at once forbidding and downright sinister. It was a good thing she was blessed with a practical disposition rather than a nervous one, or she would be quick to imagine the manor filled with villainous relatives, treacherous servants, and of course, the requisite ghost, more than likely stalking the battlements at midnight with his head tucked securely under his arm. Or under her arm, of course, if it were the female variety of unearthly apparition.

Indeed, it appeared to be the sort of house where secret passageways were the norm, and where sliding panels concealed hidden rooms filled with dusty bones. The library was certain to contain books of ancient magic, interspersed, of course, with fake books containing ornate keys or cryptic treasure maps in their hollowed-out cores.

The sun reappeared after its short absence, and once again the manor looked perfectly normal, concealing nothing more dreadful behind its ivy-covered facade than two “hell-born boys” and a gaggle of poorly supervised servants.

Clucking to her horse, Anne drove along the broad, curved drive to the front door. From past experience she knew it was vital to establish her standing in the household from the very beginning. So far, wherever she had been employed, she had never used the servants’ entrance, nor did she intend to start now.

Tying the horse’s reins to a hitching ring, she boldly mounted the flat, wide steps to the main door, where, using the lion’s-head knocker, she loudly announced her arrival.

After a short wait, she pounded again, and this time was rewarded when the door creaked slowly open. Have the hinges oiled and the door knocker properly polished, she thought, beginning a mental list of tasks to be accomplished.

The butler, if indeed he was such, stared at her out of red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes, and it did not require a whiff of his overpowering breath to inform her he had been imbibing strong spirits rather heavily. Third, dry out the butler, she added to her list.

“I am Miss Anne Hemsworth. Mr. Trussell has engaged me to be the new governess.” Without waiting for a reaction from him, she sailed past the befuddled man, drawing off her gloves even while she continued to instruct him. “Please inform the housekeeper of my arrival and tell her I expect to see her
at once
.”

He gawked up at her as if she were a figment of his imagination, or more likely, an hallucination whose origins might well be attributed to the consumption of far too many bottles of smuggled French brandy.

She waited while he rubbed his eyes and then goggled up at her again without apparent comprehension. “I am the new governess.” With more patience than she had shown the groom, she looked down at him and repeated herself, this time speaking loudly and enunciating every word clearly. “Send the housekeeper here to me at once.”

Finally her words seemed to penetrate the alcoholic haze in his brain. “The housekeeper? You want to see Mrs. Plimtree?”

“Yes, fetch Mrs. Plimtree.” Anne sat down on an immense chair of medieval design, which appeared totally incongruous next to a delicately carved table holding a cracked Venetian glass vase containing the dismal remains of what may or may not have once been roses. The parquetry surface of the table had been damaged by water leaking from the vase, and the corners of many of the individual pieces of inlaid wood were curling up.